


Queen Ink

by siriuslyhiddenlawyer



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Benedict Cumberbatch - Freeform, Benedict Cumberbatch AU - Freeform, British Actor RPF - Freeform, Drinking, F/M, Getting Tattooed, Ink, Live Music, San Francisco, Smoking, Tattoos, getting inked, real person - Freeform, singer - Freeform, songwriter - Freeform, streets of san francisco - Freeform, tattoo artist - Freeform, tattoo shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 17:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13839297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriuslyhiddenlawyer/pseuds/siriuslyhiddenlawyer
Summary: Set in an AU, in 2012, in San Francisco, where a tattoo artist meets a British singer, who's performing a set at her favorite Bar, and something about him just intrigues her.





	Queen Ink

**Author's Note:**

> This is written with all due respect to BC and his family, with deep respect for his work and integrity as an artist. This is just an AU, me and my overactive imagination having fun with the idea of BC living a different life if he wasn't my favorite actor/human being.   
> Adult content below, reader discretion is advised!!  
> This is a work of absolute fiction, meant to be fun and playful!   
> There maaaay be a second half!

            Desdemona, Dez to most, walked into Tupelo after work, needing a stiff drink then planned to head back to her tiny apartment and pass the fuck out. Her arms felt exhausted and tired as she pushed past the crowd that already gathered at the entrance of the bar that boasted live music. She’d been working on a rather large piece that day, and she’d been astonished at the man’s ability to stay still under her needle for five hours straight while she tattooed him. She was allowed to go by bouncer standing outside, looking massive and formidable even as he winked at her.

            Walking inside, she was immersed in the bar, in the noise of the crowd as she made her way to the bar, winking and flirting her way to her favorite spot as the band on stage rocked their hearts out. She settled on the stool, grinning as the bartender wiggled his fingers at her in acknowledgement, and she knew she didn’t have to bother placing an actual order with him, her whiskey on the rocks would be served in a few seconds. She turned on the stool, resting her arms back against the bar as she watched the band on stage.

            The singer’s voice caught her attention. It was a baritone that should’ve sounded harsh and unable to flow with music but there was something incredibly soft in the baritone, an underlying…something that brought such love to the lyrics he sang as if from the very pits of his being. He was using the microphone with its stand, holding it with both hands, his eyes squeezed shut as he sang, wearing tight green, checkered pants and button up white shirt with long sleeves, chains hanging off his hip, swinging with his movements. She noticed his boots last, frowning in the dim light to see what was on the buckles. His black hair was covering his eyes and he kept pushing it away from his eyes with an impatient hand, his voice as soulful as the words he sang:

_I'm a desert, O God_

_Yearning for a drop of water_

_For a lifetime I've been seeing the sea_

_from a distance, in the desert_

_"Spring" to me is just a name_

_an old name from the books_

_Why are my prayers to heavens_

_left unanswered?_

The chorus sent chills down her spine, as she listened to his heartfelt pleas, watched the way he bent over, doubling in half as in pain as the words left him:

_O God, O God_

_I'm a desert, I'm a desert_

_Tell the clouds to rain, I want to be revived_

            She took her drink from the bar, the amber liquid slowly warming everything it touched as she continued watching the fascinating singer, watched the way the crowd in front of the stage screamed for him, watched how he interacted with them, the ferocious intensity on his face breaking for a smile that lit his entire being. She watched them until they finished their set, the singer declaring, “I’m Ben and these are the Cumbers! Thank you!” turning her back on the stage only after the singer had leapt off it in a lithe movement, wiping his face with a towel he was given.

            He came to stand next to her at the bar, panting slightly as he was pressed against her, ordering a gin and tonic from the bartender. She glanced up at him with a smile she hadn’t planned on gifting him, “you’re _really_ good,” she told him, and he somehow heard her over the din. When he turned to look at her, she barely managed to contain her gasp. God, his eyes were beautiful, _he_ was beautiful…She didn’t use that word lightly to describe anyone, men or women. It was a word she usually reserved for the beauty that appeared naturally, a sunset, a sunrise, a flower in the desert, a redwood that grew right across the Golden Gate Bridge. But this man was truly beautiful, a work of art that was capable of speech with eyes that she knew no artist could create.

            “Thank you!” he smiled and she frowned slightly, wondering if she’d imagined the accent.

            “That song about the desert and spring, asking for rain, that was gorgeous! Who wrote it?” she asked, wanting to keep him talking to see if she’d actually heard the accent, to hear that wonderful baritone speaking.

            He grinned, and she watched his perfect, angular jaw melt into multiple chins, brightening his every feature, making him blinding, “that would be yours truly,” he grinned, wiping his face again and she wished he didn’t, the sweat making him glow, made her think about licking it away instead of that towel wiping it so callously.

            “You’re British,” she laughed her surprise.

            Raising an eyebrow, she watched him thank the bartender with a nod, taking a healthy gulp of his drink, her eyes tracing the way his throat worked when he swallowed the liquid. He had a long elegant throat that drew her attention. A bit of a vampire with her kink for necks, she wasn’t surprised that she couldn’t stop staring at the long column in alabaster, “London, born and bred,” he said, leaning an elbow against the bar, the corner of his exquisite mouth lifting in a smile, “why the surprise?”  
            “I couldn’t hear your accent when you were singing,” she answered, and didn’t realize she was leaning towards him until she felt his breath fluttering her hair, “you sing beautifully, by the way,” she grinned, charmed by the lisp that had made his singing feel more vivid.

            “Thanks love,” he winked at her, that multiple chinned smile returning, “I’m Ben by the way.”

            She shook his hand, noticing how big his hands were, how long and elegant his fingers were, a musician’s hands that engulfed hers, “Dez.”

            “Dez?” he lifted a brow, pursing his lips, “what’s it short for?”

            She laughed, taking a sip of her whiskey but knew the warmth she felt spreading through her had absolutely nothing with her drink, “I usually like making people guess, more fun that way.”

            “Ah!” he tilted his head, narrowing his extraordinary eyes and she tried to think how she would describe them if she had to. They were slanted upwards, an almond shape but catlike somehow with thick brows, long eyelashes that cast shadows and their color…a swirl of every imaginable hue of green and blue, literally _swirling_ together with a brown spot in the eddy of his right eye. “Desdemona,” he murmured.

            “Wow!” she laughed, “no one’s ever guessed it on the first try, hell, even on the fourth! This is a first.”

            He laughed heartily, winking at her, “I figured your name had to match your beauty, beautiful enough to drive any man mad with jealousy, like Desdemona did.”

            “As far as pick up lines go B, that’s a damned good one,” she smiled, “what’s Ben stand for then? Benjamin?”

            He shook his head with an easy grin, “Benedict,” he told her, “Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch, at your service love.”

            “That’s a mouthful,” she was pressed completely against him now, turned sideways on the stool and he spread his legs, straddling her legs comfortably. She usually didn’t like this much contact with a stranger, but he was too beautiful to refuse. She let go of all the reservations she would usually have, let go of the doubts that usually flourished when she was chatted up by a sexy stranger in a bar. “The Cumbers!” she giggled when it finally clicked.

            “Clever, isn’t it,” he laughed, “I don’t mean to be rude or disrespectful Desdemona, but I have to tell you,” he looked down at her leg, “that is an extraordinary tattoo you have. I mean, not that the ones on your arm aren’t worth my praise but your leg...”

            She laughed slightly, straightening her leg and drawing her short skirt as high as she could without flashing her pussy. The tail of the peacock was massive and colorful, lifelike as it flowed down from her thigh, the last feather touching her knee. “It’s my favorite piece too,” she murmured, watching the way his fingers ghosted over her skin, tracing the feathers but not touching her skin. She smiled at his politeness, biting her lip as she thought about how many people usually just decided they could touch it without bothering to ask if they could.

            “Extraordinary,” he murmured, and she caught something in his eyes when he glanced up at her, “dare I ask where the rest of her is?”

            “You may dare,” she grinned and purposefully straightened up against him, licking her lips and watched those eyes drop to her mouth, “it’s right here,” she told him, touching the side of her left breast, tracing her hand down her side, “the main body is here, and the tail starts here,” she touched her hip.

            He made a sound deep in his throat, somewhere between a hum of understanding and an animalistic growl. She was suddenly obsessed with the shape of his mouth as he took another drink. His lower lip was full and plump, his upper lip a work art she couldn’t stop comparing it to, a perfect cupid’s bow that looked like it had been measured, drawn with precise detail by a perfectionist’s hand, made to torture the dreams of all those who saw him. “I’d love to see the whole thing,” he growled after a while.

            She laughed softly, opening her legs now, her short skirt riding higher and she let the crowd behind him push him between her thighs, smiling up at him now that they were pressed flush against each other. She was sitting with him still standing, her breasts pressed against his stomach and she looked up with a smile, “it’s a privilege given to few.”

             “Art must only be appreciated by true connoisseurs,” he murmured.

            “Maybe you won the art lottery tonight,” she laughed, “ask nicely and you might get a private viewing. There’s a phoenix here—” she touched her right side, “that you haven’t seen.”

            “What’s the entrance fee I wonder,” his voice was dark and intimate, heat flickering in those pale eyes.

            Biting her lip, she couldn’t help pressing herself against the solid wall of his abs. He wasn’t exactly muscular but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body, his stomach felt like it was made of stone, his chest and shoulders broad, the white shirt straining to keep itself buttoned, from ripping from the thickness of his biceps. She had the absurd thought that he needed to buy shirts that fit but didn’t say anything because what a shame that would be. “Maybe you’ll let me ink you, take your tattoo virginity,” she smiled, “I was thinking the lyrics to your song would make the perfect thigh piece.”

            “What makes you think I’m a tattoo virgin?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. She watched with interest as he reached into his back pocket, pulling out a slim cigarette case and lighter.

            “I’m a tattoo artist,” she told him with pride, “I have my own shop a few doors down from Tupelo. I’ve been doing the needle work since I was 15, I can tell if someone has tattoos or not from just a look.”

            He lit the cigarette, taking a thoughtful drag from it, “so you can just tell whether or not someone has tattoos based on?”

            “Instinct,” she shrugged a shoulder, taking the cigarette from his lips and taking a drag, laughing at his slightly offended look but he quickly lit another one for himself. Dez couldn’t stop watch his bone structure, couldn’t stop herself from licking her lips as those beautiful lips formed a perfect “oh”, blowing a lungful of poisonous smoke in the air. “Haven’t been wrong yet!”  
            “So you’re the Sherlock Holmes of tattoos,” he clarified.

            “That’s one way to put,” she smiled up at him.

            “Care to put your money where your mouth is?” he leaned down to whisper against her ear.

            “Definitely,” she grinned.

            She caught the bartender’s attention, cautious as always and told Johnny that she was heading out with the singer, and she wouldn’t return. But if she went missing….Johnny laughed but nodded his understanding. Her fingers intertwined with Ben’s, she led him out of the bar and out into the cold street, watching him pull on a heavy leather jacket, frowning at her when he saw that she wasn’t wearing anything to keep the cold at bay. “Aren’t you freezing? Here love, take my jacket,” he said and started to shrug out of the heavy leather material but she stopped him.

            “I live down the street babe,” she grinned, “I’ve lived in San Francisco weather my whole life, I’m used to the cold.”

            He tucked her arm through his, following her obediently, both of them blowing streams of smoke into the foggy night. She glanced up at him from time to time, fascinated by his high, sharp cheekbones, his perfect jaw, his nose, his lips…She added the color of his lips to her growing list of obsessions, remembered reading about anatomy, that a man’s lip color usually matched the color of his cock. And his were the most perfect, rich shade of pink that she’d ever seen. She nearly choked on the thought and had to stop, drawing him into an alley between two bars.

            “What?” he asked, slightly confused but grinned when she wrapped her arms around his waist, and she didn’t need to say anything else as he leaned down to her kiss her slowly. He took his sweet time too, those bright colored eyes dropping to her lips, letting her see the heat in their depths as he leaned down, brushing her lips with his and she groaned, opening her mouth for him, tasting the cigarette and his gin and tonic on his tongue. He cupper her throat in his palms, holding her steady for his kisses.

            Some thoughts floated through her mind, something about how insane this was, how crazy she was acting throwing herself at the mercy of a stranger, groaning wildly and ready to come just from his kiss. But those thoughts had no place between them as he kissed her, as he stole her breath into his lungs and touched her tongue with his, exploring her mouth with delicious patience.

            She put her hand on his chest and pushed back, laughing breathlessly, “oh you are delicious,” she murmured, “one more kiss like that and I’ll end up riding you here.”

            “What a fucking wonderful idea,” he laughed but he followed her out of the alley, his arm now wrapped around her shoulders, making her shiver as he pressed her into his warmth. They walked two blocks then came to her tattoo shop and the apartment she lived in above it. “Queen Ink,” he murmured, reading the name of her darkened shop, “is that by any chance a reference to Nick Cave?”

            She moaned wildly, turning to face him, her back against the door, “a man after my own heart, you know Nick?”

            “I live and breath Cave,” he laughed, following her inside and up the steps to the loft she used as her apartment. She watched him walk in, loved the way he walked around her space, touching things as she flipped on the lights. Everything was in vivid jewel tones, the walls bare because she’d loved the starkness of the red brick with the rest of her decoration. “So how many tattoos do you have?” he asked, shrugging out of his jacket and throwing it on the couch.

            “Too many to count,” she walked over to the bar she’d tucked into the corner, pouring him another gin and tonic as she watched him walk to the pieces of her own art that she’d framed, “somewhere in the 20’s.”

            He made a humming sound as she poured herself a whiskey, walking over to him to hand him the drink, “thanks love,” he grinned, touching her glass with his, “here’s to an unforgettable night.”

            “Cheers,” she returned the grin, leaning against the arm of her sofa. God, he was exquisitely beautiful, his eyes more green than blue under the lights of her apartment, making her wonder what color they would be when he was stripped naked.

            “So, you’re theorizing that I don’t have any ink,” he murmured, pronouncing the “k” with deliberate harshness, doing a slow walk, unabashedly touching her things as if he needed to touch them to understand them, to see them.

            “Yes,” she smiled, her eyes tracing his broad shoulders that tapered down to his lean waist and a rather luscious behind that curved perfectly. She was overcome by the thought of sinking her teeth into his skin there, making her shiver.

            “What are we betting?” he asked, standing in front of her now, his hands in his pockets, his legs spread as he stood.

            “If I win, you let me tattoo you,” she smiled, “if you win, you get to choose the tattoo.”

            He threw his head back and laughed. Dez found herself fascinated by the contrasting personalities. Just like his singing voice, the harsh perfection of his face was softened by something she couldn’t quite name. The severity of his beauty should’ve made him unapproachable but somehow, there was a warmth to him, an openness that made her fingers itch to touch him. “Deal,” he told her.    

            With an imperceptible smile, her apartment drowning in silence and anticipation, he reached for the buttons of his trousers, unbuttoning them slowly as he licked his lips. Her eyes followed his long, beautiful fingers as he slowly began unbuttoning the white material of his shirt, his smile broadening. Dez knew she was panting, knew her fingers were curling into her palm with each inch of marble white skin that he revealed for her. She didn’t care about their bet, didn’t think about his tattoos, was only concerned with adding to her growing list of obsessions. For example, the trail of light colored hair that dusted across his chest, leading down to his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants.

            He opened his shirt and she laughed, seeing the tree of life in black ink surrounded by the circle of life, the circle breaking as the leaves of the tree turned to birds that flew from his chest and disappeared behind his neck. “That’s one,” he murmured, unbuttoning his cuffs and shrugged out of his shirt. She was so overwhelmed by the beauty of his bare skin, the tracing of veins in his muscular arms that she barely saw the tattoos. He had one on his right forearm, on the inside, a series of symbols and characters in a circular swirl that she hadn’t seen before, “two, three,” he murmured, turning his back on her to show her the piece that graced his back, starting between his shoulder blades and flaring down to his mid back.

            “Holy shit,” she murmured, and couldn’t help getting up to run her hands over the back piece, feeling the raised skin where the ink was imbedded in him. “These are old school needle work!” she breathed, tracing the series of lines and dots that created a temple, surrounded by traditional Buddhist symbols and Tibetan script.

            “I got it done in Tibet by a very patient monk,” he told her, his voice soft as he let his head fall forward, taking a deep breath as if steadying himself, “took us about fifteen hours but we did it in one sitting. Learned a lot about meditation that day.”

            “Damn B,” she murmured, spreading her fingers in the center of his back, his skin surprisingly warm to the touch, so soft that she wanted to press herself against his back.

            Preferably naked.

            “I guess Sherlock Holmes has to be wrong every once in a while,” he laughed, turning to face her with a smile, “to be fair, almost no one guesses what I’m hiding under all my clothes.”

            She laughed as he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her against him and she couldn’t not touch him, couldn’t help spreading her fingers over his chest, feeling his nipples against her palms as she shivered. “Why hide them though?”

            “Wanna know a secret?” he grinned.

            “Always,” she murmured, running her thumb over his hardening nipples, his growing erection nestled between their bodies as she turned to liquid on the inside, pressing against his skin.

            “In my real life, I’m a barrister,” he grinned at the shock on her face, “this singing and songwriting thing’s just an outlet.”

            “That’s fucking amazing,” she told him, “I think I became a tattoo artist so I wouldn’t have to hide my ink, and keep adding if I wanted to. But a barrister,” she frowned, “how does someone with your voice, with your song writing abilities end up a _barrister_?”

            He laughed, “now _that_ is a question,” he agreed, “I come from a family of artists, poets, actors, hardcore thespians who were and are masters at their craft. But I didn’t have the stomach for the uncertainty, the insecurity that comes with wondering whether there will be a next role, another commission or not. So now I have a thriving practice and let the artistic juices flow with the Cumbers.”

            “Wow,” she frowned slightly, noticing the patterns on the right side of his throat, tracing her finger over the perfect splattering of freckles and marks on his skin, the mole that she wanted to taste. She looked closely and saw the whisper of freckles that marked his upper chest.

            “You’re not trying to get out of giving me a free tattoo, are you?” he asked with a chuckle, his strong, long fingers finding the curve of her bottom and pushing her closer to him.

            “Absolutely not,” she laughed, pressing her lips to his throat.

            They went downstairs to her shop, the front windows had heavy blinds that were pulled down, giving them privacy as she flicked on the lights of her shop, pointing him to the chair she used. “What will it be?” she asked, sitting on the stool, “where, and what color.”

            He sat down on the bench, his smile positively evil as he leaned forward, “your lips, your kiss, right here,” he smiled, indicating the top of his hipbone.

            “Fuck,” she breathed, and leaned forward to kiss him slowly, her hand between his thighs, cupping him through his trousers, “are you sure?”  
            “Positive,” he murmured.

            Laughing, she went to her office, finding her favorite bright red lipstick, gasping in pleasure when she felt his hand slip between her legs as she bent over to look at herself in the mirror, moaning at the possessive, insanely familiar way he touched her. She groaned his name, arching into his palm, grateful that she had a mental allergy to wearing panties.

            “You’re so wet,” he growled in her ear, “so swollen.”

            She let the lipstick fall from her fingers as she pitched forward, catching herself before she fell as he pressed his palm against her. “If you keep going, you’re going to make my hands shake and I’ll fuck up the tattoo.”

            He relented, walking backwards to the bench, licking his palm slowly as she followed, not bothering to pull her skirt down, “wicked man,” she murmured as she grabbed a clear plastic, pressing her lips to it then, making a stencil from it. He watched her patiently from his perch on the bench as they talked about his music, about his poetry, his passion for what he did, his love for San Francisco. He told her about studying theater and Shakespeare, laughing when she admitted she had never quite “gotten” Shakespeare.

            When she was ready, he pulled his trousers down just enough for her to see his hip where he wanted the tattoo and his pubic bone where the dusting of reddish hair became coarse, disappearing from her view and entering her imagination with insistence. She pressed a kiss to his hipbone, feeling the coarse hair against her lips and moaning wildly before she got to work. Bending over him, pushing the peddle that turned the needle on, watching the red ink sink into his marble white skin, hearing his breath hitch as she dug the needle into his skin. She glanced up at him a few times and found his face a mask of pained pleasure, the bulge in his pants growing and she hummed her approval. “You’re just like me,” she laughed slightly.

            “How so?” he asked, his eyes soft with erotic wants and thoughts, making her shiver where she sat.

            “Tattoos are orgasmic for me,” she told him, “I always wished I’d get inked by someone who could fuck me while they inked me. It feels so good, doesn’t it? The pain from the needle.”

            “This is the first time I’ve ever felt like burying myself in my tattoo artist, to be perfectly honest,” he laughed slightly, jumping as the needle passed directly over his bone.

            “Soon,” she promised, pressing her palm against his erection, “soon,” she murmured again to her own body that was now throbbing for him.


End file.
